Poem by Stephen Crane

* * *

I met a seer.
He held in his hands
The book of wisdom.
”Sir,” I addressed him,
”Let me read.”
”Child -- ” he began.
”Sir,” I said,
”Think not that I am a child,
For already I know much
Of that which you hold.
Aye, much.”

He smiled.
Then he opened the book
And held it before me. --
Strange that I should have grown so suddenly blind.

1. Two or three angels
2. You tell me this is God?
3. Many red devils ran from my heart
4. The ocean said to me once
5. To the maiden

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